


as the mist and snow

by pibroch (littleblackdog)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Anxiety Disorder, Babysitting, Background Sheriff/Melissa, But otherwise, Canonical Character Death (Past), Christmas, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, F/M, Future Fic, Good Peter, Hanukkah, Holidays, Humor, Kid Fic, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Public Sex Mention, Snow, because Claudia, pregnancy mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-19
Updated: 2015-12-19
Packaged: 2018-05-07 15:51:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5462294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littleblackdog/pseuds/pibroch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Does it count as a daddy kink if seeing you wear the baby sling is doing it for me?” Stiles holds up a hand, forestalling whatever smartass response is on the tip of Peter’s tongue, and shrugs the strap of the diaper bag over his head. “Don’t answer that. Rhetorical question.”</p>
<p>The weather outside is frightful, Stiles and Peter are on babysitting duty, and Scott might be cursed. December in Beacon Hills is rarely dull, but so delightful.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RebaK1tten](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RebaK1tten/gifts).



> My Steter Secret Santa gift for rebak1tten, who wanted fluff, happy endings, and babies. I hope you enjoy!
> 
> Title from Mad As the Mist and Snow, W.B. Yeats
> 
> For clarity’s sake:  
> In this future fic, Scott decided to change his surname to Delgado, his mother’s maiden name, when he and Kira got married. Melissa decided to go back to Delgado at the same time.
> 
> Stiles is Jewish & agnostic, but enjoys the kitsch and glitz of Christmas in an aesthetic sense. Peter isn’t religious, but has a lot of memories and complex feelings about Christmas.
> 
> Few specifics are mentioned in terms of who’s dead and who’s alive in the pack. Can easily be read as an “everybody lives” scenario, or relatively canonical (up to 5A). Whatever butters your muffin.

SATURDAY, DECEMBER 9th

It was shortly after lunch when the doorbell chimed. Stiles snapped his DS shut and set it on the coffee table, almost leaping up from his sprawl across the couch.

“I got it,” he shouted, double-timing it to the front door. He’d been camped out in the living room for hours, just in case Scott and Kira decided to show up early, and now his forethought was about to pay off.

Stiles yanked the door open, arms flung wide and grinning even wider. It was _Baby Day_ , and he was so freaking excited, he was almost vibrating out of his skin.

But before he could get his hands on an adorable, sweet-smelling little bean, Stiles found himself caught up in an insistent bro-hug. There was absolutely no fighting the preternaturally strong arms that wrapped around him, and really, it wasn’t like he wasn’t fully on-board with all the hugging. The truth was, Scott gave amazing hugs: full body engagement, firm but not too tight, like he was always really earnest about the gesture. Always totally committed, no weak, half-assed hugs allowed. And right this second, with a super soft sweater under his open jacket, it was like being cuddled by a big, warm teddy bear.

“Hey, buddy,” Stiles said, giving back as good as he got while Scott’s hot breath huffed against the crook of his neck. Alpha instincts had only gotten stronger over the years, as they all got older, the Pack grew larger, and Scott got more comfortable with his wolf. The dude was liberal with the scent-marking, had been since college, and even more so now that he was a dad.

Peeking around Scott’s head, Stiles had to bite back a few choice words. In three and a half seconds of distraction, he’d lost his chance at quality baby time. Goddamn werewolf speed.

“Leave the boys to handle the bags,” Peter was saying, ushering Kira inside. Mimi was a little bundle of sunny yellow winter coat and endless cuteness in her mother’s arms, but that wasn’t going to last long. “Let’s get her out of the chill.”

Sure enough, Mimi started wiggling the second she heard Peter’s voice, craning to peek around the white, furry edge of her hood.

“Unca!” For a ten-going-on-eleven-month-old, Mimi had an impressive vocabulary. Or, that’s what Stiles had been told by basically everybody they knew, and the internet. Mostly, it was still babble and lots of it— she was a chatty little girl— but she was definitely getting the hang of a number of comprehensible words. “Unca! Unca!”

Her stubby arms were flailing, bright red mittens grabbing the air as she reached desperately for Peter.

“Okay, okay kiddo—” With practiced ease, Kira passed the squirmy baby over. Peter didn’t even try to hide his shit-eating grin, gathering Mimi close.

“Hello there, jellybean.” There was a genuine sort of brightness in his tone, a real joy lighting up his eyes, that was still a little bit freaky to see from Peter Hale. Freaky for other people, anyway, including Scott. Stiles thought it was adorable, and it was no use teasing Peter about it, because the dude had literally no shame about being a complete softie when it came to kids.

Honestly, Stiles wasn’t quite willing to admit how _profoundly_ adorable it was. How stupidly attractive Peter was when he got all squishy and animated, playing with Mimi, reading to her and doing silly voices, or rocking her to sleep. Because admitting that would mean confronting some other very serious possibilities— terrifying words like parenting, adoption, _permanent_ — and Stiles wasn’t quite ready to go there. Not yet. Not quite.

It was getting harder to ignore the urge, but he was only twenty-eight, and Peter was a werewolf, with the preternaturally extended lifespan. They had time.

Assuming Peter even wanted that, with him. _Uncle_ wasn’t the same as _dad_. Peter might already be a father, technically, but he’d never had the chance to be a dad. Privately, Stiles hoped they were on the same page, but he wasn’t sure. They’d never talked about it.

And this definitely wasn’t the time to bring it up.

“Hi,” Mimi said, one of her first and favourite words, and patted Peter’s face with her mittens. He leaned in, blowing a noisy raspberry against her round, flushed cheek to make her squeal with delight.

Untangling from Scott’s hug, Stiles swatted him hard on the shoulder, speaking low enough that Mimi might not care to listen. She was definitely a shapeshifter, likely a werewolf, but her senses weren’t super sensitive yet, only a little more acute than a human baby. According to Peter, Derek, and Deaton, they wouldn’t develop to full strength for a couple more years.

“Dude,” he said, flat-out ignoring Scott’s pout. “You know how hard it is to get some quality time once Dingo over there gets his paws on the baby.” Peter had peeled off one of Mimi's mittens and was currently pretending to eat her fingers, so the nickname was particularly apt.

“I’m not gonna see you for like, two weeks,” Scott said, with huge, sad puppy eyes that Stiles was entirely immune to at this point in their friendship. Mostly. “And it’s not like he can bogart Mimi the whole time. I mean, at some point he’s got to sleep.”

“You underestimate my power,” Peter called back over his shoulder, as he, Mimi, and Kira made their way toward the kitchen. “Stiles, close the door. We’re not heating the neighbourhood.”

 

* * *

 

“You have the emergency numbers.”

“We have the numbers,” Stiles agreed, one hand braced on Scott’s shoulder. He wasn’t _quite_ holding the dude back, but it was a close thing. They’d been trying to get the Delgado-Yukimuras, minus Mimi, out the door and on the way to the airport for about twenty minutes.

Standing in the archway to the living room, still within plain view of the front door, Peter was bouncing Mimi in his arms and singing quietly to distract the girl as her parents worked through their low-key freakout. Kira was alternating between rubbing Scott’s back, obviously trying to calm him down, and making aborted motions towards Mimi, as if she was fighting the urge to snatch her baby.

“Does she have her blankie?” Scott turned to Kira, looking utterly stricken. “I forgot to pack it. I left it on the red chair, I know I did. She can’t sleep without her blankie, we gotta go home—”

“I packed it,” Kira said, squeezing Scott’s arm. “It’s in the bag with her jammies.”

“What about Dino—”

“Dino’s in the same bag. So’s her sheep, and both her froggies. And there’s a whole other bag of toys, too.” They’d brought no less than five bags of baby stuff, which was a little ridiculous. As if Stiles and Peter weren’t the coolest uncles, with a house already crammed full of gear for their favourite niece. Peter had pretty much gone bananas and bought out Babies’R’Us the day after Kira had let him hold Mimi for the first time. After that, they’d never stopped keeping their supplies up to date as she got bigger. Hell, Stiles was the one who’d bought Dino in the first place, and Mimi went everywhere with that stuffed toy.

“We got this, man,” Stiles said. “And if you actually did forget something, I’ve got a key, remember? I can get anything we need from your house. This is not our first rodeo.”

Scott took a deep breath through his nose, dragging one hand over his jaw, then around to rub the back of his neck.

“It’s two weeks,” he said, with enough emotion thickening his voice to make Stiles feel like an asshole. “We haven’t been away from her for two _days_ in a row. And it’s not just down the street, it’s like a thirteen hour flight to Seoul. I’m just… I’m nervous, okay? It’s not you guys. It’s totally me.”

That was a damn big step, but it wasn’t something any of them were going to acknowledge out loud. The fact that Scott trusted Peter enough to leave his daughter in their care for two _minutes_ was a massive deal. An enormous change from back in high school, and the span of years between that past and this present had rarely felt so vast.

They’d come a hell of a long way. Sometimes it hit Stiles like a brick.

“It’s going to be fine, Scott.” Kira slipped under her husband’s arm to snuggle up against his side. “Mimi’s going to have so much fun, getting spoiled by her uncles. _We’re_ going to have so much fun, visiting and sightseeing. It’s all going to be fine.”

“It’ll be like a second honeymoon,” Stiles said. “You guys seriously deserve a mulligan on that, considering the thing with the _cadejo_ on your first honeymoon. And those Hunters, you remember? Man, what a freaking disaster that was, right—” He caught the panicked, warning expression sweeping over Kira’s face a split second too late.

“Oh god—” Scott’s voice cracked, and yeah, okay, dredging up memories of their last big catastrophe vacation was probably not the wisest thing Stiles had ever done. Scott’s breathing was starting to speed up, catching on every inhale. “Oh god, what if, when we’re gone—”

“Are you kidding me?” Peter abandoned any pretense of staying in the living room, stalking over toward the front door. He shot Stiles a sharp, deadly sort of glare before turning his attention to Scott. “Scott, listen to me. Do you honestly think there’s anything on this planet, supernatural or otherwise, that I wouldn’t brutally murder without hesitation to keep this little girl safe? Any hey, with our saintly local Alpha out of town, it’s not like I’d even bother pretending to play nice.”

Oh crap, that was the opposite of helping. Scott’s expression pinched, and Stiles could see a vein throbbing at his best friend’s temple.

“Now.” Peter’s voice melted into a honeyed drawl, seemingly unconcerned that he was pushing Scott closer to a stroke with every word. “If you’d kindly calm the hell down before you upset your daughter, a trans-pacific flight should be much more comfortable without my foot wedged in your—”

“Pa,” Mimi said, with the first hint of a tremulous note in her voice. She had one hand fisted in Peter’s shirt, but she reached out towards Scott with the other. If tears happened now, they were in deep shit. “Pa? Papa?”

“Hey, snugglebug!” Immediately slapping on his brave dad face, Scott turned the anxious grabbing motion into an extended high-five, catching hold of Mimi’s hand and swaying it playfully. The tension diffused almost immediately, and Mimi started to laugh, babbling a mile a minute.

“It’s going to be fine, Scotty,” Stiles said, because that really couldn’t be repeated enough. “I promise.”

Scott stared at him for a moment, tight-lipped, and Stiles tried not to feel insulted by the hesitation. Setting aside this momentary panic, Scott was totally cool leaving Mimi in their care. It was just the cold feet of a first time father. They’d been planning this trip for months, working out all the details; nothing was getting cancelled last minute. Taking Mimi along to Korea wasn’t an option, because apparently bringing young shapeshifters on planes, with the pressure changes and altitude, was a Very Bad Idea.

Finally, _finally_ , Scott nodded. And the room let out a collective, figurative breath.

“You’re going to have fun with Uncle Peter and Uncle Stiles, aren’t you?” Kira shifted close enough to nuzzle a couple of kisses against Mimi’s face and neck. “Mimi loves sleepovers, right? Yeah, I know. I know you do, sweetie.”

There was a worrying, weepy sheen starting to gloss over Scott and Kira’s eyes. Stiles made a cutting motion at his own throat, waggling his eyebrows meaningfully at the pair of them.

“Ixnay on the waterworks, for the love of god,” he said. “Keep smiling for this B-A-B-Y, or I’ll kick your A-S-S. Don’t test me, Scotty.” Scott sniffed wetly, ducking his head and turning away to wipe surreptitiously at his eyes. Kira kept it together a little better, but there was a definite tremble in her lip.

“Okay, well, I guess we’ll see you guys on the twenty-third.” She was speaking too quickly to sound truly calm. Grabbing Scott’s hand, she laced their fingers together.

“Oh, you’ll see us sooner than that,” Peter said mildly, and the complete lack of impatience or derision in his tone was painfully conspicuous. “We’re just a Skype call away. And we’ve got international texting.”

“Okay, jellybean.” Stiles wiggled his fingers, getting Mimi’s deep brown eyes to swing his way. “Say bye-bye to Mama and Papa. Bye-bye!”

“Hi!” Mimi waved back, grinning broadly and showing off pink gums and all six of her tiny, pearly teeth. “Mama hi! Papa!” The girl said something else completely incomprehensible, still waving, and Kira kissed her itty bitty fingers.

“Mama loves you, Mimi.” Stretching up on her tiptoes, Kira paused for a split second, then pecked Peter’s cheek. The subtle widening of Peter’s eyes, that momentary flash of shock bleeding into happiness, made Stiles feel all warm and melty in his chest. “Thank you for taking care of her. Both of you.”

“Yeah,” Scott said, hoarse. But when he turned around again, his cheeks were dry. “Thank you, guys. We, uh… It helps a lot to know she’s in good hands. That you'll keep her safe, no matter what.”

“Dude,” Stiles said, before things got mushier than Mimi’s lunch. “You’re gonna make me blush. C’mere, you big sap.”

Another hug seemed appropriate, and if either of them clung harder this time, nobody mentioned a thing.

 

* * *

 

“Here, stop pouting.” Stiles fumbled slightly when twenty pounds of tiny, giggling person was dropped onto his lap. He’d been at the kitchen table, tapping away on his laptop, half working and half screwing around. Mimi’s chubby hand reached out the instant she was plopped down, mashing the touchpad and the keyboard, but not doing any permanent harm.

“Hi,” Mimi said, rocking on her butt as she smacked the spacebar repeatedly. “Hi!”

“I’m not pouting.” Scooting his chair back a little, Stiles managed to catch the soft toy Peter tossed his way, and pressed the stuffed apatosaurus into Mimi’s grasping fists. She loved her Dino, thankfully more than she loved beating the shit out of Stiles’ laptop. For the moment, at least. “Not bored of jellybean-sitting already, are you, babe?”

“Princess Mizuki and I are bored of your sour puss.” Any potential for real bite in Peter’s words vanished as he bent down, planting a kiss on the crown of Mimi’s silky black hair, and then another kiss to Stiles’ lips. “Keep her entertained while I make dinner.”

“You checked Kira’s updated food list, right?” They weren’t strangers to babysitting duty, but Mimi was growing like a weed, learning new skills in leaps and bounds like the little genius she was. She’d gotten the hang of chewing fairly easily, which was awesome for expanding her diet.

“I already put it in my phone.” Peter padded over to the fridge and started pulling out ingredients for whatever he was planning. “We’ll go pick up a few more things tomorrow. It’s Sunday; the farmers market opens at ten.”

“Sure.” Stiles hid his smile behind Mimi’s head. “I think somebody just wants an excuse to play DILF for the day, make the granola crowd cream their mom jeans. But what do I know.”

“I never need an excuse to buy fresh and local. Some of us have a palate evolved beyond string cheese and taquitos.” Judging by the spread on the counter, they were having pasta. Peter set a skillet on the stove, and started filling a pot with water. “Basking in the attention of my adoring public is a definite bonus, but that happens with or without the baby. Pesto or pomodoro?”

“Use up the last of the tomatoes. We’ll get fresh ones tomorrow.” Mimi was getting restless, probably bored, so Stiles shifted her around until she was sitting sideways on his lap. “And I know a jellybean who can eat tomatoes now. Yes I do! Does Dino wanna dance? She does?”

Stiles could handle wiggling the stuffed dinosaur around with his own humming and Mimi’s chattering as the only soundtrack, but a minute later, real music started playing. Peter slid his pinkie along the screen of his iPhone, which he’d plugged into the dock speakers they kept over by the toaster.

Stiles didn’t recognise the song— something peppy, a bit jazzy, and absolutely not Peter’s usual style— but it wasn’t horrible. And Mimi seemed to like it, if her clumsy clapping was any indication.

He wasn’t going to ask whether Peter had made a playlist especially for the baby.

But, after dinner was ready, and Mimi was safe in her highchair with a tray of bite-sized pasta pieces, diced plum tomato, shredded chicken, and small cubes of melon, Stiles caught his ridiculous boyfriend by the belt loops, before they sat down.

“Hey,” he said, dragging an unresisting Peter into a deep, lingering kiss.

Peter hummed thoughtfully when they drifted apart an inch or two, still hovering close enough to spread his hands across the small of Stiles’ back. “What was that for?”

Dipping down again, Stiles pressed a couple quick kisses against the corner of Peter’s mouth, rubbing his lips on stubble until they tingled.

“I’m getting a headstart on the I-L-F part.” He leaned in, lowering his voice to a murmur even though Mimi would have no idea what he was saying. “I’ll give you the D later.”

“Jesus, Stiles.” The overdramatic scoff meant Peter was trying hard not to laugh. Then Mimi let loose a flurry of gibberish, with a couple of enthusiastic _unca_ s and _yumyum_ s thrown in, and Stiles had to brace himself against Peter’s shaking shoulders as they both cracked up.

 

* * *

 

Luckily, Mimi understood the basic concept of a sleepover, so there was only a little fussing for Mama and Papa when she was put down for bed. Stiles fully expected the next night to be harder; this would be the longest she’d ever been away from her parents. Hopefully the Skype calls— _frequent_ calls, knowing Scott and Kira— would help the little jellybean get through the next two weeks without too many tears.

“This is gonna be weird,” Stiles said, stretching out on top of Peter so they could both lounge along the length of the couch. He tucked his nose into the crook of Peter’s neck, breathing out a contented sigh. Their Christmas tree sat in the corner, glittering with tiny white bulbs and lustrous ornaments. On the mantel of the bricked-up fireplace, well out of Mimi’s reach, there was an antique brass menorah, with two little cups of oil and the shamash lit, flickering golden light. Stiles’ dad hadn’t lit one at home for years, not since Claudia died, but Stiles decided it might be nice way to remember his mom, when he and Peter started building their own traditions.

To be honest, Stiles had expected resistance to the idea of any fire in their home, but Peter had been totally, shockingly, supportive. This was the same guy who’d had the brand new, fancy gas range replaced with electric before they’d even moved into the house, and the fireplace sealed off. There was a bookshelf built under the mantelpiece now, where the hearth used to be.

But not a single protest was uttered the day Stiles carefully brought up the menorah thing. Peter simply asked if he still wanted a tree too— which, yeah, Stiles had no intention of giving up the baubles and pretty lights.

He hadn’t stepped foot in a synagogue in almost twenty years, and he didn’t plan to start. He could burn a couple of candles, though, and think about his mom’s perfume and the weight of her hand on his shoulder. When her hands were still kind, before she got too sick.

The tree and the three tiny flames were currently the only lights on in the entire house. They cast the whole living room in cosy shadows and highlights of rich, gilded warmth, softening any sharp edges.

The baby monitor was sitting on the coffee table, silent so far. At this point, Mimi was usually good to sleep through the whole night, even in their guestroom instead of the soothing familiarity of her own nursery at home.

“Yes, maybe a little weird,” Peter agreed, slowly stroking his hands up and down Stiles’ back. “She cries loud enough to wake the dead, and I would know. Now that she’s mostly walking, she gets into absolutely everything, and she shits herself. Frequently. But I’d still rather spend the next two weeks sharing a house with her, instead of Scott.”

“Rude.” The response was automatic, without any heat. Stiles cuddled closer, letting his eyes drift shut. It was only eight-thirty, but even half a day spent chasing Mimi around had tuckered him out. The stress of prepping for the big handoff, and the emotional goodbyes probably didn’t help anything. “Mm, you talk a lot of shit, Hale, but you and Scotty are fine. You let him scent you, before they left. Didn’t even snarl about it.”

“That was for Mimi’s benefit. It’s understandable that she’s comforted by her parents’ scent.”

“Right. Okay then, who benefited from you scenting him back?”

Peter was silent for a beat too long.

“They were guests in our home,” he said eventually. A touch defensively, but layered with so much snark that most people wouldn’t have recognised it. “I was being _polite_. A novel concept for you, I know. Remind me again which one of us was raised by wolves?”

“Shut up and make out with me, asshole.”

“Rude,” Peter parroted, then tipped Stiles’ chin up with one finger, brushing their mouths together, soft and wet.

 

* * *

 

SUNDAY, DECEMBER 10th

“Does it count as a daddy kink if seeing you wear the baby sling is doing it for me?” Stiles held up a hand, forestalling whatever smartass response was on the tip of Peter’s tongue, and shrugged the strap of the diaper bag over his head. “Don’t answer that. Rhetorical question.”

“It really wasn’t.” With a few tugs, Peter deftly adjusted the fancy, fleecy sling that fit over Mimi’s winter coat, and kept her securely fastened to his chest. The ease with which Peter manipulated a length of fabric into a safe and sturdy baby carrier was possibly some kind of sorcery. It was _definitely_ some kind of bullshit.

Peter was always winding and twisting the sling into bizarre, convoluted shapes that somehow kept Mimi positioned any way he wanted, in any situation. Stiles could barely touch the damn thing without almost strangling himself, and he could never get it to stay put without slipping the minute Mimi squirmed, freaking him the fuck out. He did not need to be the one who dropped the baby. That was not going to happen.

Scott and Kira used slings too, without any trouble. Seriously, it had to be some kind of weirdo, supernatural skill set, and Stiles just did not have that kind of training.

Either that, or everybody Stiles knew was a dick, and they kept giving him defective slings, then secretly laughing while he fumbled around like a jackass. Both options seemed plausible.

Mimi snuggled comfortably into Peter, swaddled in her stupid magic sling, facing inward with her legs supported. There’d been a slight crunch of frost on the ground that morning when she woke them up, but it’d burnt off quickly, and Stiles didn’t worry about her suffering from the nip in the air. She was layered up: shirt, pants, fuzzy socks, and a sweater. Her downy winter coat, boots, mittens, a matching red beanie with a knitted flower pulled down over her ears, along with the the winter-weight sling. Now she was pressed up against the furnace of Peter’s werewolf body heat, and partially protected by his coat, hanging open on either side of her.

They were having a little cold snap, but Mimi was ready for December in Juneau, never mind Beacon Hills.

“Come on,” Peter said, giving the interior of their SUV one last survey before shutting the door and locking it with a tap of the fob. “Before everything gets picked over, and I have to maul someone for a decent head of broccoli.”

The Beacon County Farmers Market was a spacious, airy building about a five minute drive outside of town. Open year-round, it wasn’t the county’s only market, but it was the largest. During the summer and fall, its hours were longer and there were more vendors; things quieted down a little in winter, but not much. There were always hardier, cold-weather crops, hothouse harvests, and this time of year, a week into December, the holiday kitsch was out in full force.

“Oh my god, Peter, do you smell that?” It was a stupid question to ask a dude with werewolf senses. The rich, overwhelming scent of sugar, spices, and fresh baking had just sucker punched Stiles in his ordinary human nose as they crossed the parking lot. “Did it say anything on Mimi’s food list about cinnamon buns? A little bite of one wouldn’t hurt her, right?”

Peter cut a sideways glance at him, not looking terribly impressed. “Let’s hold off on loading her up with refined sugar until we’re ready to give her back.”

Stiles darted forward, holding the door open for Peter and Mimi, then followed them inside the brightly lit market. It was barely eleven, and there were already dozens of people milling around, browsing the stalls and chatting with vendors. Evergreen garlands and velvety red bows were draped everywhere, twinkling with white lights. Oversized ornaments, balls and stars made of gleaming metallic plastic, had been strung from the vaulted glass ceiling, and there was mellow, instrumental holiday music being pumped through the sound system.

Less overwhelming than the garish decorating and noisy throngs packing the mall, but there definitely wasn’t any shortage of holiday spirit here.

“And so it begins.” Stiles nudged Peter in the ribs as they meandered toward the rows of produce. “Two o’clock, fondling the onions. White sweater. Looking like she wants to eat you up, Big Bad. Yum yum.”

“Yum,” Mimi said, lolling her head around and gawping at the colourful displays. “Yum yum!”

“Hm. You’re right.” Without warning, Peter leaned over, planting a firm kiss on Stiles’ partially open mouth. Stiles flailed for a second, until muscle memory kicked in and he was kissing back, crowding close and wrapping one arm around Mimi.

Then, just as abruptly as it had arrived, there was only one tongue in Stiles’ mouth again, and another hand was slotting into his, with a solid, warm grip.

“We’re holding hands?” Stiles blinked down at the tangle of their fingers, allowing Peter to tug him along and get them moving again. He didn’t have enough attention to spare, so he didn’t bother checking if Sweater-and-Onions was still watching. “Peter, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but we’re holding hands.”

“I’ve always found your powers of observation very attractive, darling.” They stopped at one of the stalls, and Peter hefted a bundle of carrots in his free hand, looking them over with his usual critical eye.

The last time Stiles had managed to wheedle Peter into a night out at the Jungle, things had gotten so heavy on the dance floor that Stiles had literally cum in his pants, grinding like he was getting paid for it and riding Peter’s thigh. At least a dozen people had heard him moaning, even over the thudding music. They’d seen his flushed and fucked-out face as he’d come down, while Peter stroked his sweaty hair and muttered filthy, gorgeous promises in his ear.

He’d survived that with his dignity mostly intact. He’d actually winked at a couple of dudes on the way back to the bar, hanging off of Peter like a vine, shameless about the wet patch seeping through the front of his jeans. If he hadn’t died of embarrassment then, there was absolutely no good reason for the heat he could feel creeping up his neck and over his face right now. He was holding hands with his boyfriend at a farmers market, checking out organic carrots and spinach, with a baby gurgling happily between them. It was so innocent, so _domestic_ — it was surreal. Stiles was getting lightheaded.

But it wasn’t necessarily a bad feeling.

 

* * *

 

When Mimi started fussing after about twenty minutes of wandering the stalls, and tickling her cheeks with the fluffy green carrot tops wasn’t making her smile anymore, they grabbed a table in the café area near the prepared food, instead of heading directly to the car. She wasn’t actually crying yet, and once Peter sat down and loosened her sling, she got completely enthralled by the sparkly ornaments hanging overhead.

Stiles tore a couple tiny pieces off the soft gingerbread cookie he’d bought, and offered one to Mimi. The treat was a compromise: not as sweet as most of the other cakes and cookies on offer, without any icing or chocolate. Probably not sugary enough to have her climbing the walls, or turning her nose up at lunch when they got home, but still something special.

Plus, Peter had a weakness for this sort of classic, spicy-sweet treat. Stiles certainly wasn’t worried about the rest of it going to waste, or any of the thick, gooey cinnamon bun he’d got for himself.

“Someone’s getting sleepy already,” Peter murmured, brushing his hand gently over Mimi’s hair; it was warm inside the market, so her hat and mittens had ended up tucked into the diaper bag. She was slumped against his chest, sucking her fingers with a drowsy, dreamy expression on her face. That was fine; a supernatural immune system meant they didn’t really have to worry about germs. “We should head home soon. I’d like the chance to get some real food into her before her nap.”

“I’m good to go whenever you are.” Stiles had his phone on the table, tapping out a text with one relatively clean finger. He’d tried to lick off all the icing and sticky cinnamon sugar residue, but he was still leaving smears on the glass. “Scott, Kira, and the Yukimuras landed in Seoul, safe and sound. Hang on a sec—”

Giving his hand a more thorough wipe on a paper napkin, Stiles pulled up the camera app, then raised his phone. He snapped five photos in rapid succession, not giving Peter too much of a chance to harden up the softness that Mimi could coax into his expression.

There was too much lens flare from Peter’s eyes in two of the photos, and Mimi was doing her own mirrorball impression in the third one. The remaining two shots were freaking masterpieces.

Knowing Peter like he did, Stiles quickly slapped a flattering filter over the slightly better one, saved it, then sent it off to Scott.

“It’s totally unfair.” He turned the phone around to show Peter the photo. “I can’t compete with this level of cuteness. You two are a public menace.”

The best picture was actually the very first one he took, before Peter really noticed what he was doing, and the totally candid nature of it made it even more appealing. In that captured moment, Mimi’s hand had dropped out of her mouth, and she was grinning wide and gummy, staring up at Peter like he’d hung the moon. Well, she was probably looking at the hanging ornaments, but in the photo, it seemed as if Peter was her focus.

The reverse was definitely true, though, not just a camera trick. In the photo, Peter only had eyes for Mimi, and he looked like the very definition of _smitten_. His fingertips were just barely touching her downy cheek, and somehow the faint creases visible at the corner of his eye made him look younger. Although, maybe that was less a product of the crow’s feet, and had more to do with the unguarded, captivated smile he was wearing.

If Stiles had caught Peter gazing so lovingly at anybody else, other than Miss Mizuki Roxana Delgado-Yukimura, he might’ve been worried. Mimi was a special case, though.

“You’re such a little shit,” Peter said, but he handed the phone back without trying to delete anything. Stiles definitely counted that as a win.

 

* * *

 

TUESDAY, DECEMBER 12th

“Hey, Peter? You wanna meet Santa?”

Peter hummed, rubbing his nose against Stiles’ nape. “Is that a euphemism?”

They were spooning, curled up together in bed. Ordinarily, both of them slept naked, but with their little guest in the house, the constant possibility of having to quickly get up and deal with some baby-related issue meant underwear stayed on. Stiles was even wearing a t-shirt, but Peter’s hand had already migrated up underneath it, laying flat over Stiles’ heart as they settled in to sleep.

“You wish, horndog.” They were also dialing back the dirty a little, or at least being more careful about it. No impromptu blowjobs in the kitchen while Mimi was strapped in her highchair, gnawing on sliced grapes. They’d started biting lips and pillows to muffle their usual sex noises, which tended to get loud. Nothing heavier than kisses and a bit of groping, unless she was sleeping.

It’d only been a couple of days without the freedom to fuck enthusiastically in every room of their house, whenever they wanted. It felt a bit weird, sort of vaguely claustrophobic, but they were making it work. Surviving two weeks of this was going to be no problem.

Seriously, the kid slept fourteen hours a day, give or take. That basically meant a ten hour daily sex ban, while she was motoring around the house, being awesome. No freaking sweat. Really.

Mimi was a busy little jellybean, though. She might be tiny, but she had a shitload of energy to burn, and she got bored easily. Keeping her entertained, happy, fed, and dry was a full time gig. So, to be honest, catching up on his own sleep when she finally conked out was quickly becoming Stiles’ favourite hobby. Even compared to sex.

“Stiles.” The tired rasp of Peter’s voice dragged his wandering mind back to the matter at hand. “You’ve got three seconds to explain what the hell you’re talking about, or shut up and sleep.”

Setting aside his depressing sleep-versus-sex realisation for the moment, Stiles stretched out and clicked on his bedside lamp, making Peter hiss. Then he squirmed around until he was lying on his back, still cuddled up close to Peter’s chest.

“Santa,” he said. “Is at the mall, every afternoon ‘til Christmas. Want to take Mimi? She’s never met him.”

Peter stared at him, not saying a word, with hazy blue eyes half-lidded. It wasn’t exactly the exhilarated response Stiles had been hoping for, when he presented a genius idea like that.

“Mall Santa,” Peter said, after an eternity. “Has any kid ever actually _liked_ a mall Santa? The bloodcurdling screaming coming from that horror show is half the reason I avoid the mall like the plague in December.”

“Are you serious right now?” Stiles could hardly believe the crap he was hearing. “Kids love Santa! Even _I_ loved Santa.” He had vague memories of discussing the Great Santa Secret with the other kids from shul, and how special it had felt, deciding as a group to keep their Christian friends in the dark about it. He'd always thrived on knowledge, especially anything classified and illicit, and the Santa Secret had definitely felt like it fit in that category.

“Kids love the _idea_ of Santa.” Peter didn't sound remotely persuaded. “Somehow, being manhandled by a stranger in a fake beard, sweating through his fatsuit and huffing halitosis in their faces, seems to be a less magical experience than presents appearing under the tree. I can’t imagine why.”

“I’m dating the goddamn Grinch.” As if Peter hadn’t been the one clambering up on their roof the week before, stapling strings of lights along the gutters. “Listen. I want to put Mimi in a fancy dress— a dress that you are free to pick out and buy for her, no limits— and get photos of her with Santa. Photos, cute enough to put Kira into a diabetic coma halfway around the world. Cute enough to make Scott burst into cartoon tears, like he did that time I sent him the video of her with the lambs at the petting zoo. Work with me here, babe, c’mon.”

“Sweetheart, she can’t control her eyes enough to stop the lens flare—”

“So we’ll jangle some keys, get her to look to the side. Tell the photographer the flash hurts her eyes. I got this. I’m a man with a plan, I promise.”

“Fine.” Peter heaved a put-upon sigh, rubbing his cheek against Stiles’ shoulder. “You know I’m never going to pass up the chance to torture Scott. But I’m bringing earplugs.”

 

* * *

 

FRIDAY, DECEMBER 15th

Mimi had sparkly gold and silver flowers on her hair barrettes, frothy white lace around the ankles of her tights, and she managed not to spit up on her red velvet dress until after the Santa photo-op. For somebody who’d been so firmly on Team Scrooge when it came to Mall Santa, Peter hadn’t shied away from getting Mimi all spruced up and camera-ready, and it had turned out perfectly.

He’d also bought four different dresses, and ended up changing Mimi in the back of the SUV, after a last minute reconnaissance run into the mall to get a better look at the exact colour of Santa’s suit and the props in the background. Stiles didn’t say a word as Peter buttoned Mimi into an _oxblood_ dress, instead of the _garnet_ one he’d put her in before they’d left the house. Biting his tongue over some prime teasing opportunities had been a small price to pay for these photos.

“It’s a freakin’ miracle,” Stiles said, wiping off the mess Mimi had drooled on herself, while Peter finished up paying for the photos. Letting her have her bottle right before she saw Santa had been a minor miscalculation. “She was so good, and she looked like one of those model babies. I’m gonna print nine-hundred copies when we get home— everybody we know is getting some. Wallet and wall-sized. I’ll send one to Jackson, for godsake. Oh! I’m changing my cover photo on Facebook.”

Well, he’d probably hold off on that last part. It was the last night of Hanukkah, so the artsy photo of their menorah that Peter took the year before last could stay one more day, before Mimi and Santa took over.

The young, freckled elf who was processing Peter’s credit card smiled broadly, cheeks dimpling. “First Christmas with the little one, huh?”

Peter’s answering smile was very charming, and as fake as the elf’s ears. “How could you tell?”

“Lucky guess.” The receipt was handed over, along with a USB drive of their photos. “My mom and my step-mom adopted a little girl last year, from Argentina. Layla, my baby sister. They were over the moon for like, months. They still are. I’m, uh… I’m really glad for you guys.” The elf motioned toward Mimi, who was busy rubbing her damp little hands all over Stiles’ face, meticulously mimicking the clean-up he’d just done to her. “Every kid deserves to be that happy. Seems like she’s got two great dads.”

Stiles hadn’t really been paying much attention to the small talk, but _two great dads_ made him snap into focus.

“We’re lucky to have her,” Peter said, instead of correcting the assumption. Stiles felt his stomach flutter, as though he’d swallowed a flock of birds.


	2. Chapter 2

SUNDAY, DECEMBER 17th

It was Sunday morning, and they were in the homestretch, just past the one week mark of their jellybean-sitting adventure. Stiles was cross-legged on the living room floor, watching Mimi put various brightly coloured balls into muffin tins, take them out again, and start over. Occasionally, he was called upon to fetch a ball that rolled too far away. And sometimes Mimi would simply hand him one of the balls for no apparent reason, with an air of immense solemnity.

Peter was stretched out on the couch, with his laptop perched on his stomach and his noise cancelling headphones snug on his ears. Sulking, because Mimi liked the improvised muffin tin game more than she liked the new stacking toy he’d bought for her. It didn’t matter that she’d get tired of the balls in like, ten minutes, and move on to something else in the veritable mountain of toys she had to choose from at their house.

God, sometimes it was like having two kids.

To be fair, Peter was also taking the opportunity to catch up on some emails, and whatever else. Both he and Stiles worked from home, most of the time, which was one of the reasons they got babysitting duty as often as they did. Their availability was pretty much wide open.

Then the doorbell rang.

“Peter.” Nothing. Not a twitch.

Stiles wasn’t about to unfold himself from the playmat and leave Mimi to her own devices. Not when he had a perfectly capable, perfectly mobile werewolf boyfriend at his disposal.

He picked up one of the softer foam balls, yellow and a little smaller than a lacrosse ball. After making sure Mimi wasn’t paying attention, he biffed it at Peter’s head.

It didn’t get a chance to bounce off that perfect face. Peter caught the ball mid-air, like an asshole, without even looking up from his laptop screen. It got his attention, though, which was the point.

Peter pulled the headphones off, fixing Stiles with an annoyed scowl. “What?”

“Somebody’s at the door.” Stiles tried to muster up his most endearing, pleading puppy eyes. It wasn’t entirely effective, judging by Peter’s flat expression. “Go see who it is? Please, babe? Honeybunny? Love of my life?”

Peter didn’t answer, except to grumble wordlessly, but he did shift the laptop onto the coffee table and haul himself to his feet. Success.

“I have the best boyfriend.” Stiles flopped over, creeping his hands along the playmat to tickle Mimi’s bare feet, making her squeal. “Mimi says _thank you Uncle Peter_. Don’t you jellybean?”

“Unca!” Stiles glanced over to where Peter was loitering in the archway of the living room, watching them both. Yeah, the big bad wolf was thawing already. Babies were magic.

Mimi grabbed his thumb, and Stiles’ attention was back on her.

They were passing balls back and forth, working on fine motor skills, when an unexpected voice made Stiles turn, and Mimi shriek with delight.

“There she is.” Melissa swept into the room and scooped Mimi up in one smooth, practiced move. “There’s Nana’s girl. Hello, sweetness!”

“Evidently, we’re about to be victims of a kidnapping,” Peter said, coming back into the living room, a step behind Stiles’ dad. “I tried to stop them, darling, but I think the big one’s got a gun.”

The words were desert-dry, but might actually be true: his dad was in jeans instead of his uniform, but he’d been known to carry his ankle piece off-duty. Usually loaded with wolfsbane bullets, along with the supernatural defense arsenal he kept in his car, well-stocked by Deaton and Stiles. If he and Melissa were really planning to take Mimi, however, the pistol would’ve already been safely locked in the glove compartment.

“We’re just here to give you a night off,” Melissa said, before Stiles could ask. Mimi had a fist full of her curls, holding tight but not yanking, and Nana of the Year Melissa Delgado seemed to take it in stride.

A couple of days ago, Stiles might have felt a twinge of avarice. A greedy desire to hoard all the time with Mimi he could get, because this was his and Peter’s _turn_ , damn it. And they could handle two weeks of baby duty. They didn’t need the help. They weren’t floundering.

Today though… maybe it was pure luck, happenstance, that Melissa and his dad showed up when they did. Because honestly, Stiles loved Mimi— to the moon and back, as Peter was fond of saying— but the idea of some time to themselves sounded like fucking heaven.

 

* * *

 

“The house is quiet.” They’d been baby-free for a little over an hour. Stiles had spent about twenty minutes of that time tidying up toys, then another few minutes just standing in the living room, getting increasingly anxious. “Peter? Is the house too quiet?”

Peter didn’t look over, still peering into the open fridge. “Not since you moved in.”

“Oh, ha.” Stiles hopped up to perch his ass on the counter, the heels of his socks drumming dully against the cupboards. “There’s not gonna be anything new in there since the last time you looked. Two minutes ago. Unless that weird cheese actually started to reproduce.”

“Let’s go out for lunch.” The fridge shut with a decisive thud. “Or we could order in, and entertain ourselves until it gets here by thoroughly defiling the couch. It won’t seem so quiet when you’re moaning my name.”

“I do love a man with a plan.” Stiles grinned, spreading his legs to make room as Peter prowled close. A distraction was a brilliant idea. “Think you can make me cum before the food does? Thirty minutes or less, or my next orgasm is free?”

Peter’s answering smile was razor sharp. Wolfish, in every sense.

“You wound me, darling. This isn’t amateur hour.” His hips slotted neatly into the vee of Stiles’ thighs. “I could have you wrung out and trembling in thirty seconds.” Stiles sucked in a sharp breath as Peter’s fingers curled into the pockets of his sweats, then exhaled when the only thing that got felt up was his cell phone.

“The question you should be asking—” Peter pressed the phone into Stiles’ hand, leaning in even further. His breath fanned out across the pale, delicate skin of Stiles’ throat as he nuzzled the flutter of his pulse. “Is how _many_ times I’m going to make you cum before the food does. Satisfaction guaranteed.”

 

* * *

  

TUESDAY, DECEMBER 19th

“Only you, Scotty.”

“Seriously?” Peter raised his voice, so Stiles could hear him over Mimi’s wailing. “What the hell did he lose now?”

It was a fair question, after the luggage incident during their first day in Korea, where half of their bags had ended up at the wrong airport. They got them back in a couple of days and that mistake had been the airline’s fault, not Scott’s. The thing with the hotel keycards… _that_ was Scott’s fault.

“Himself,” Stiles said. After testing the bathwater temperature one last time, he wiped off his wet hand, still holding his phone in the other. Kira, bless that adorably fiendish woman, was keeping him updated on the latest Scott situation. “They were touring some caves, I guess. And somehow Scott got separated, took a wrong turn, then about a hundred more wrong turns. Took him like, three hours to find his way out. You almost ready, babe?”

“Almost. Come on, you wriggly little—” With one last tug, Peter had Mimi stripped down, free of her messy clothes. Lunch had been an adventure, and she’d ended up wearing more of it than she ate. Usually liberal applications of wet wipes did the trick, but today’s disaster zone required pulling out the big guns.

Bathtime wasn’t often this much of a chore, but it was part of her normal bedtime routine. And, apparently, Mimi wasn’t keen on the idea of being sent to bed at one in the afternoon. Which wasn’t the plan, but trying to explain that to a furious eleven-month-old had not gone well.

Mimi had been cruelly betrayed by her uncles, and she certainly wasn’t shy about letting the world know.

Regardless, neither Stiles or Peter were keen on having a sticky baby toddling around the house with pudding in her hair. She’d been screaming for the past five minutes straight, ever since Stiles had plunked the baby seat into the tub and started running the water, and she showed no signs of calming down yet. Stiles didn’t even want to imagine how brutal this had to be with werewolf hearing, considering the ringing in his own ears.

Their bathroom had excellent acoustics. Unfortunately.

“Alright, feral child.” Scooping Mimi’s bare butt up off the countertop, Peter carried the writhing mass of naked baby limbs over, and knelt next to the tub. The pitch of Mimi’s shrieks got impossibly higher the second her toes touched the warm water. “Jesus _Christ_. What are the chances she’s actually a banshee?”

“Could be.” Stiles grabbed the baby shampoo, and squirted a dollop into Peter’s waiting hand. “If she keeps it up much longer I’m gonna drown myself, so. Portent of death might not be too far off. Shh, sweetie, c’mon. Give Uncles a break. You want Daisy Duckie?”

She might not have the language skills to articulate quite yet, but Mimi’s screwed up glare communicated very succinctly that she didn’t give a shit about Daisy Duckie. Stiles set the rubber duck on the side of the tub, a bit afraid for the little dude’s safety.

Peter lathered up Mimi’s tiny, filthy head as efficiently as possible, careful to keep the suds out of her eyes— _no tears_ on the label was a fucking joke. The occasional cupful of warm water poured over her body kept her from getting chilled, and started to rinse away the smears of food still clinging to her arms.

By the time she was all squeaky clean, Mimi’s cries had dwindled down into miserable, hiccuping sobs and sniffles. Not as hard on the head, but wow, now Stiles’ _heart_ hurt.

“Aw, jellybean, I’m so sorry. C’mere.” Peter passed her into Stiles’ waiting arms, where she was bundled up in a fluffy, hooded towel. “It’s okay. It’s okay, sweetness. All done, I promise.”

The tub glugged away, swiftly draining the couple inches of water. When he stood up, it became very apparent that the front of Peter’s white t-shirt was soaked through from Mimi’s splashing. There was a lot of nipple action happening. A lot of clinging.

“Holy God. The view almost makes up for the busted eardrums.” Stiles ogled shamelessly, letting Mimi bury her face against his neck while he bounced her, safely swaddled. “Cut me a piece of that beefcake.”

“Charming.” Peter peeled the shirt over his head and tossed it into the laundry hamper in the corner. Stiles wasn’t picky; bare chested was good too. “Let’s get her dressed before she gets cold. And I’m almost afraid to ask, but how exactly does a werewolf, an _alpha_ , get lost in a cave for three damn hours?”

“You’re not going to freakin’ believe this but, _aconitum koreanum_.” They left the mess around the tub to be cleared up later, and headed out of the bathroom together.

“Korean wolfsbane,” Peter said flatly, and Stiles shrugged. “You’re shitting me.”

“I shit you not.” Mimi’s whimpering was getting quieter the farther they got from the bathroom, which was a good sign. Stiles made a beeline for their bedroom instead of the spare room, not willing to risk another bout of screaming if she caught a glimpse of her crib and assumed he was going to put her in it. “Apparently they hiked through a bunch of it on the way to the cave. Didn’t even realise, since it’s not flowering this time of year. But I guess even the leaves were enough to give Scotty a contact high, or whatever. Put his senses on the fritz. Weird cave, stoned werewolf, bad luck.”

“ _Scott’s_ luck,” Peter said, and Stiles tried to bite back a laugh. “Are you honestly sure he’s not cursed?”

“Nah.” Stiles was relieved when Mimi let him nuzzle a couple kisses against her damp cheeks, accepting the comfort without fussing as he set her on their bed. “Not even remotely sure. Okay, jellybean, you keep an eye on Uncle Peter while I go grab you some clothes.”

“Unca,” Mimi said, still blotchy pink from her freak out. Her towel, with the soft fin and teeth attached to the hood, made her look like the world’s cutest shark, floating in the sea of their dark blue duvet.

Then she flopped over, curled up in a ball against Peter’s pillow, and promptly closed her eyes. Well, she might have a savage set of pipes, but at least she didn't hold a grudge.

“Is she—”

“Don't question it.” Crawling into bed too, Peter shuffled the blankets around, careful not to move Mimi too much as he got them both tucked in. “Nap time, at least until the tinnitus stops. Get in or get out.”

 

* * *

 

SATURDAY, DECEMBER 23rd

“Who’s that, Mimi?” Stiles adjusted the laptop screen so she could see it more easily from her perch on Peter’s lap. “You see that, jellybean? Who’s that?”

“Hi sweetie!” There was a minor delay between the audio and the video, the signal was a little juddery, but Kira sounded clear enough.

“Ma!” Mimi instantly started to rock in place, waving her hands like she was trying to clap but couldn’t quite muster up the coordination. The little girl looked absolutely ecstatic to see her mom, even through the slightly grainy Skype feed.

Kira reached out, as if she wanted to touch the screen on her side, then curled her hand up against her chest instead. If her voice sounded thicker, nobody was going to mention it. “That’s a very pretty sweater, Mimi. Did you pick that out yourself?”

Mimi’s second favourite part of her morning routine— ranking just after cuddles in bed with Peter and Stiles, when she was invariably smuggled into their room by a certain clingy werewolf— was usually choosing her own clothes for the day. Today, it was the blue cardigan with white snowflakes, and her neon orange puppy shirt underneath. The subtle way Peter winced every time he looked at the clashing mess was still hilarious.

Leaving Peter to handle the Skype chat, Stiles turned slightly away and hunched over his phone, quickly tapping out a text.

> **To Papa Wolf:**  
>  _Ok Scotty explain to me again why ur not on a plane rn???  
>  _
> 
> **From Papa Wolf:**
> 
> _I told you we got diverted to Hawaii. We’re stuck overnight_
> 
> _How’s Mimi? Is she ok?_
> 
> **To Papa Wolf:**
> 
> _Yes I get the Hawaii part. But whyyyyyy????_
> 
> _Jellybean is awesome, stop changing the subject  
>  _
> 
> **From Papa Wolf:**
> 
> _I smelled something weird ok?_
> 
> _I told one of the flight attendants, they told the pilots. Turns out there was some mechanical trouble. So we landed._
> 
> **To Papa Wolf:**
> 
> _Really. Mechanical trouble._
> 
> _Cuz twitter and my news alerts r saying shit like “tragedy narrowly averted” and “hero passenger”_
> 
> **From Papa Wolf:**
> 
> _Are you serious??_
> 
> _Oh god why_
> 
> _I heard the instruments pick up the problem like five minutes after I told somebody. We would have been fine even if I hadn’t smelled anything._
> 
> _It’s not a big deal!!!_
> 
> **To Papa Wolf:**
> 
> _Dude it’s on CNN  
>  _
> 
> **From Papa Wolf:**
> 
> _WHAT_
> 
> _Oh god_
> 
> _Am I cursed? Seriously?_
> 
> _Why does this kind of shit keep following me around???_
> 
> **To Papa Wolf:**
> 
> _As ur emissary I say this with confidence: I believe ur curse free*_
> 
> _*Not counting any shit u might have stirred up whilst in Korea_
> 
> _Unofficially… only u Scotty_
> 
> **From Papa Wolf:**
> 
> _Wtf “only me”???_
> 
> _I didn’t do anything!!_
> 
> **To Papa Wolf:**
> 
> _U know ilu buddy. Ur my one true bro for life, ride or die_
> 
> _But ur brand of luck is gonna give me an ulcer before we’re 30_
> 
> _Look on the bright side. One day ur gonna be able to tell Mimi u missed her first xmas cuz u were saving a plane load of people from a fiery crash. 100% BAMF dad_
> 
> **From Papa Wolf:**
> 
> _I’m not gonna miss Christmas Stiles. Shut up._
> 
> _It’s one extra night. We’ll be home tomorrow, that’s only Christmas eve._
> 
> _We’re not missing Christmas_
> 
> **To Papa Wolf:**
> 
> _Chill I was kidding_
> 
> _And if u guys r late we can postpone. It’s not like Mimi knows what day it is  
>  _
> 
> **From Papa Wolf:**
> 
> _We’re not gonna be late_
> 
> **To Papa Wolf:**
> 
> _Good luck and godspeed my man_
> 
> _Wish the Yukimuras a big old Mele Kalikimaka from me & Peter_
> 
> **From Papa Wolf:**
> 
> _Asshole. You googled how to spell that._
> 
> _And you can tell them yourself when we get home. We are NOT missing Christmas. I refuse._
> 
> **To Papa Wolf:**
> 
> _That’s the spirit. Work that stubborn alpha mojo_
> 
> _Now put ur damn phone down and come say hi to ur kid  
>  _

 

* * *

 

SUNDAY, DECEMBER 24th

Apparently, it started snowing sometimes during the night. It was still snowing when they woke up the next morning. Stiles stood at the window, looking out into their backyard and bouncing Mimi on his hip while they waited for Peter to finish prepping her bottle.

Scott and Kira were due home early that afternoon, which would leave Stiles and Peter to enjoy the rest of their Christmas Eve like usual, child-free. Stiles’ dad would probably stop by around dinner, just long enough for a quick visit and a mulled cider, sans rum, before heading to the station for his shift. Stiles would get a handful of texts from their packmates, maybe a call or two— the latter probably from Lydia or Malia. Peter’s cell would stay silent, and he’d get quieter as night crept in, his eyes going unfocused and distant sometimes before he’d shake himself out of it.

They’d exchange gifts in the glow of the tree. Stiles would get rosy cheeked and tipsy on spiked cider before they tumbled into bed for some slow, sloppy sex. Or they might just kiss a couple of times, then go to sleep, wrapped up together in the dead centre of their California King.

It was a simple, comfortable night. And it was tradition at this point; they’d been doing basically the same thing, with a few evolutions and alterations along the way, every Christmas Eve since they moved in together. After seven years, it definitely counted as a tradition.

So yeah, that was the plan. It was all good, all arranged, and everything would be back to normal in a couple of hours. Mimi’s imminent departure back to the loving arms of her parents had nothing to do with the weird tension in the house, making Stiles feel prickly. Really.

“Hey, are you seeing this?” He motion toward the window with his coffee cup, carefully keeping the hot ceramic away from Mimi’s curious hands. “We’re literally getting a white Christmas. This is nuts. It’s like freakin’ Hoth out there.”

Peter appeared at his elbow, warmed bottle in hand. Mimi knew exactly what was coming, pleadingly grabbing the air when she saw it, and demanding her _bah_. She latched on the instant Peter handed it over, holding it by herself and slurping away.

“It’s not _that_ bizarre, Stiles.” A broad hand settled on the small of his back, and Peter crowded close, hooking his chin over Stiles’ shoulder to look outside too. “We’re close enough to the mountains for it. You know, we used to get snow every winter when I was a kid. Still not a lot, but at least a few dustings.”

“Gee whiz, Gramps.” There was absolutely no reason for him to be a dick right now, and risk shattering the calm spell of this remarkable, snowy morning. Even now, with only Stiles listening, it took a rare day for Peter to share memories like this, voluntarily talking about the past. But the snark spilled out of Stiles regardless, in a tone that was slightly too barbed to be playful, even for them. “You gonna start telling me how you had to walk to school, knee-deep, uphill both ways—”

Peter’s teeth were blunt at the moment, but they were never harmless. Without any warning, a punishing bite sank into the crook of Stiles’ neck, right above the loose, frayed collar of his t-shirt. Stiles hissed, and even though he only jolted a little from the unexpected pain, Mimi still made a few grumpy gurgles.

“Ah! Easy—” He jerked his free arm back, elbowing Peter in the sternum. Not as hard as he wanted to, but he was holding a baby. “You’re gonna upset her, asshole. Go grab one of Mimi’s teething rings if you’re looking for a chew toy.”

“Please. I didn’t even break the skin.” And now Peter sounded petulant, like he was gearing up for a mood. Fantastic.

Stiles took a breath.

Peter was already in the process of disentangling himself, stepping away, when Stiles reached back and nabbed his wrist. “C’mere, Big Bad. Watch the snow with us.”

He dragged Peter’s arm around, forcing a hug, chest to back. Well, not really _forcing_ , since Peter could tear him apart like wet tissue paper without breaking a sweat. Peter came willingly, with some huffy complaining grumbled under his breath, but didn’t actually struggle. The broad, hard line of his body wedged up against Stiles’ back, noticeably warm through the thin layers of their t-shirts, and his other arm rose too, looping around Stiles to stroke Mimi’s hair while she ate.

“It’s pretty,” Stiles said, after letting the silence settle for a few moments. Letting the world quiet down, as tiny, fluffy white flakes swirled and drifted in the wan morning light.

Peter hummed, and the last trace of pain from the bite faded— a little too suddenly, as though it was drained away— when he pressed a soft kiss against the side of Stiles’ throat.

 

* * *

 

Beacon Hills officially got their largest snowfall in at least three decades, just in time for Christmas. Over a foot deep in places, clumping on trees and rooftops, and basically shutting the streets down until the city got its shit together and started clearing it. According to his dad, they were actually making surprisingly decent progress, considering how quickly the weather had moved in.

> **From Gandalf:**
> 
> _Stiles, I’m not even in the state at the moment. How could I possibly know whether or not there’s any “oogie boogie action” happening?_
> 
> **To Gandalf:**
> 
> _Super druid intuition? Ur years of inestimable and invaluable wisdom? A hunch maybe?_
> 
> _Idk man, not all of ur old contacts trust me yet, so maybe u heard something I didn’t??_
> 
> **From Gandalf:**
> 
> _I’m sorry to disappoint, but I haven’t heard a word about anything out of the ordinary. At least, nothing that could explain severe inclement weather._
> 
> _Beacon County does get snow on occasion, you know. Not for a number of years, but this could easily be a normal, if rare, occurrence._
> 
> _Besides the fact that it’s there at all, and in some quantity, is there anything odd about the snow?_
> 
> **To Gandalf:**
> 
> _I mean it’s not like snowmaggedon. Not raining frogsicles or anything. It’s just snow I guess_
> 
> _A lot of snow. All at once_
> 
> _I feel like it’s weird? Maybe? My mojo senses are tingling_
> 
> **From Gandalf:**
> 
> _You should trust your gut, to a degree. As Scott’s emissary, you’re attuned to the territory, and that connection will only grow stronger with time. Especially considering your unusual history with the Nemeton._
> 
> _Any “hunch” could be an invaluable warning._
> 
> **To Gandalf:**
> 
> _Great. Just great_
> 
> **From Gandalf:**
> 
> _That said, from what you’ve told me, I truly don’t believe the snow is anything dire. I wouldn’t worry._
> 
> _With Scott out of town, and the changes to your routine, between the holidays and caring for Mizuki, your intuition is probably just oversensitive at the moment._
> 
> _But please text me if you start to hear strange whistling in the woods. Still no need to panic, but I’d appreciate being kept in the loop._
> 
> **To Gandalf:**
> 
> _Wow that’s not unsettling at all. Thx bunches Alan_
> 
> **From Gandalf:**
> 
> _You’ll be fine. I should be back on the 29th. We’ll meet for tea and discuss things then._
> 
> _Happy holidays to you and yours, Stiles._
> 
> **To Gandalf:**
> 
> _Yeah happy holidays man. Eat, drink, be merry, etc_
> 
> _Fair warning Marin promised me video if u get too deep in the nog ;)_

“Hey, so, Deaton says it’s probably nothing. But in that cryptic bullshit way that _could_ mean it’s actually something, and he wants me to figure it out myself.” Stiles locked his phone, tucking it into his coat pocket and hastily pulling his gloves back on. His fingers felt stiff as he flexed them inside their cozy, cashmere-lined cocoons.

“Business as usual, then,” Peter said without looking up, packing a small snowball together with his bare hands to add to the growing heap. Stiles watched with a mixture of wonder and horror, hugging himself tight and wedging his gloved hands in his armpits.

The gloves were actually Peter’s, and Peter’s wool scarf was wrapped snugly around his neck. He had one of Peter’s thicker winter cardigans on too, layered under his hoodie and coat, and even a pair of Peter’s boots, with two pairs of socks.

Stiles’ own wardrobe wasn’t exactly fit for snow, and he tended to get cold easily. The temperature in Beacon County was about ten degrees colder than average, according to the news, and Stiles was feeling every single one of those negative digits. But he hadn’t really wanted to be stuck inside like a loser while Mimi and Peter were frolicking in the backyard.

His cheeks felt tight, almost sore, and every time the wind gusted, it made his eyes water. Holy shit, the brilliant white snow was _blinding_ when the sun hit it.

Mimi was loving it, though, looking like a mint green starfish in her new onesie snowsuit, plopped down on a snow pile throne. She was molding shapes out of the stuff like she did with her kinetic sand, then gleefully smashing everything with her small, mittened fists. The maniacal way she laughed every time she crushed one of Peter’s snowballs in her hands was somewhat disturbing.

Peter was dressed in jeans, boots, and a sweater. He wasn’t even wearing a scarf to cover the low dip of his v-neck, and he looked totally unphased.

The ass and knees of his jeans had darkened with melted snow, lovingly and wetly hugging every curve, and he had snowflakes caught in his hair. If Stiles had any blood left that wasn’t congealed to slush, it probably would have been making a beeline south. But he probably wasn’t going to be able to manage even a half-chub right now, with his junk trying to crawl back inside his abdomen. A desperate attempt at self-preservation from his dick, going into hibernation before his tender bits froze solid and snapped off.

“Stiles.” Gracefully rising out of his crouch, Peter left Mimi to her adorable, wanton destruction. Despite his foray into snow sculpting, his hands were as hot as twins suns when he cupped Stiles’ face. “Go inside. Put some coffee on. Thaw.”

“I’m _fine_.” Stiles shifted a little closer, rubbing his cheeks against the warmth of Peter’s palms. There was a pretty good chance that his nose was running, which had to be a sexy look. “Seriously, check out all these layers. Just call me Stiles Stark, Warden of the North, ‘cause winter is coming and I’m so freakin’ ready.”

“That would be much more convincing if I couldn’t hear your teeth chattering.” Peter tipped Stiles’ head down, low enough to brush their cheeks together, shamelessly scent-marking and warming Stiles up at the same time. “If you get sick, I’m dropping you outside the sheriff’s station and booking myself into a hotel for a week. Your father can’t pawn you off again if he can’t find me.”

“Aww, babe, c’mon.” The multitude of layers were a blessing and a curse. They kept out the worst of the cold, but it was impossible to feel Peter’s body heat, except where they were nuzzling. “You don’t wanna play doctor? You always take such good care of your squishy human. Hey, remember last time I had a cold? The sinus thing?”

“Vividly.” The cold might not bother him much, but apparently that memory was enough to make Peter shudder. “Remember when I said that was the absolute _last time_ I was dealing with that much mucous? I wasn’t kidding. Get your ass in the house, brat, before I drag you in.”

 

* * *

 

“Only you, dude,” Stiles said, when Scott called him from the airport. The airport in Oakland, where their flight had eventually been rerouted after circling SFO for a while, waiting for safe landing conditions. Beacon Hills looked like some greeting card Winter Wonderland; much less surprisingly, San Francisco was blanketed in fog. “But at least you didn’t have to go far, right? Some poor schmucks are probably gonna end up diverted to LA or Vegas. Actually, you know what, I bet Christmas on the Strip isn’t half bad. Festive, with all the lights—”

“We’re waiting on luggage.” Scott sounded wrecked, and Stiles winced in sympathy. Lying in bed beside him, Peter hadn’t glanced up from his Kindle once, even though he could definitely hear both sides of the conversation. “It’s super busy, wall-to-wall. I’m hoping— Kira, look, right there! Is that— No, crap. Okay, yeah, I’m hoping we’ll be on the road soon. Ken managed to find us a rental car, somehow.”

“You sure you’re cool to drive?” Stiles hated to ask, but seriously, _wrecked_.

“Yeah, Kira slept most of the flight.” A deep exhale shuddered through the line, exhausted. “She’s good. We’re good. We’ll be home in like four hours. Hopefully. It’s late, so the traffic shouldn’t be too bad.”

It wasn’t _late_ -late, not quite ten-thirty, but it would definitely be way past midnight before Scott and Kira got into town. Four hours was optimistic, in Stiles’ estimation. Especially considering the snow and the dicey road conditions, once they crossed into Beacon County. The main roads were passable, but a couple of old municipal snowplows that hadn’t seen action in years couldn’t work miracles.

“It’ll be way too late to pick up Mimi,” Scott continued, while Stiles rubbed his forehead. As much as he liked to give Scott shit sometimes, he knew how much the dude hated the idea of not being there when Mimi woke up on her first Christmas morning. “And there’s no food for her at our place, until we can get to a store. We’ll, uh… Do you guys mind keeping her for a couple of hours tomorrow morning, just ‘til me and Kira can get everything together to take her home?”

“Of course we don’t mind.” God, it was like listening to a sad, wibbly puppy. There was a knot in Stiles’ gut the size of a bowling ball. “Don’t even worry about it. Just, you guys do your thing, get home safe.”

“We will.” Scott sniffed, maybe a little wetly. “It’s like you said, bro. Mimi won’t know the difference, right? I mean, she doesn’t know we’re gonna miss Christmas morning. She won’t… she won’t remember that I _promised_ —”

“Oh, for the love of god.” There was a dull thump of a Kindle smacking against blankets, and a low growl brewing in the back of Peter’s throat as he spoke. “You idiots couldn’t organise a two-car funeral. Tell them they can come here. They can grab a couple hours sleep, use the shower if they want, and be around to do all the Christmas morning bullshit when Mimi wakes up. We’ve got a tree. We’ve got food. I’ll make fucking french toast for breakfast. Just stop with the whining and the schmaltz before I puke in my mouth, _Jesus_.”

“Seriously?” Both Stiles and Scott asked at the same time, but only Scott’s voice cracked. And only Stiles was in the right position to physically throw himself on top of the nearest werewolf, deftly avoiding half-hearted swats as he peppered Peter with kisses.

“I have the _best_ boyfriend—” Stiles was totally ignoring Peter’s snarls, and only half-listening to Scott’s grateful babbling. “So smart, and sweet, and oh my god, I’m gonna do the filthiest things to you, c’mere—”

Stiles’ cell got lost in the bedding after his hands found their way into Peter’s pyjama pants, and he didn’t notice exactly when Scott hung up. Hopefully sometime before the real fun started.

 

* * *

 

MONDAY, DECEMBER 25th

“The house is _quiet_.” It sounded much more like relief than complaint when Peter said it, starfished across their duvet. Christmas morning had been a busy, noisy flurry of activity, starting the moment Mimi woke up to discover her parents were home. After that, the joyful mayhem didn’t slow down until shortly after noon, when the happy family finally bundled up and headed back to their place.

They’d all see each other again tomorrow, for a big post-Christmas dinner with Stiles’ dad, Melissa, and all the other pack members in town. But for now, it was just Stiles and Peter, and an empty house.

“Worn out?” Stiles leaned against the open door, arms and ankles crossed. Peter grunted something that sounded like an affirmative, rubbing his eyes. “It was certainly an eventful couple of weeks. Remind me to give Scotty a flea-dip for stray curses and hexes, just in case.”

“I want to lock the doors,” Peter said. “Turn off our phones, and ignore the rest of the world. For the next month, at least.”

“Hermits together, huh? I love you deeply, babe, but I’m not missing out on pecan pie tomorrow.” Pushing away from the doorframe, Stiles approached the bed with intent, crawling up until he was straddling Peter’s hips. “I wanna thank you for playing nice today. For letting Scott and Kira have a great Christmas morning with their kid.”

Peter lifted his hand from his face, arching his brows as he peered up at Stiles. “I was very nice, it’s true.”

Skating his hands over Peter’s chest, Stiles rucked up his henley until he found firm, bare abs. He hummed appreciatively, then scratched, just to feel those dense muscles jump.

“So, since you’ve got nice covered,” he said, grinning as he thumbed along the happy trail of hair starting at Peter’s bellybutton. “I figured, as a thank you, I could take the hit with Santa and handle being _naughty_ —”

The whole room spun as Stiles was flipped onto his back, pinned under strong hands, glowing blue eyes, and hungry, heated kisses.

 

* * *

 

WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 27th

As it turned out, they had a wandering swarm of ice sprites to thank for their white Christmas that year. The sparkly little jerks weren’t actively malicious, but that didn’t mean they were harmless. The situation was getting increasingly dangerous the longer they hung around; Beacon Hills just wasn’t prepared for this kind of weather. Local homeless shelters were full of people trying to stay warm, and it was only a matter of time before drivers started getting fatally reckless or unlucky on icy roads.

Thankfully, it was simple enough to herd their frosty tourists back up into the mountains where they’d cause less trouble. Judicious application of iron and rowan worked wonders, along with some werewolves acting like supernatural sheepdogs. It took a couple of hours trudging through the snowy forest, but eventually the sprites seemed to get the message that they’d worn out their welcome. Easy peasy.

With the last of the sprites sent on their merry way, the pack decided to start playing around in the frigid, fluffy drifts, looking like they just tumbled out of the brochure for a fancy ski resort. Stiles pulled his gloves on and hunkered down deeper in his jacket, whining under his breath. He could feel mountain ash residue on his fingers, gritty under his nails and probably smeared all over the cashmere lining of his borrowed gloves, which probably meant Peter wouldn’t be able to wear them again. Oh well.

“Hey, guys?” Scott’s smile was brighter than the stark white landscape around them, and he had snowflakes clinging to his wolfy sideburns. It was always a good day when a problem got solved without any bloodshed. Or, whatever ice sprites had instead of blood. “Wanna go sledding before it all melts? We brought some stuff in the Tahoe.”

“I call a cookie sheet,” Kira said, raising one hand. “The trash lids are clean, I promise. Oh, and a couple people can probably fit in the innertube.”

People immediately started to scramble towards Scott and Kira’s SUV, laughing and shoving each other. Like they were thrilled for the excuse to spend more time in this arctic hellscape.

When Stiles spun to face him, wearing a rictus of pure horror, Peter already had their car keys in hand.

 

* * *

 

SATURDAY, DECEMBER 30th

Stiles really wasn’t going to bring it up. Not right away. Waiting until things settled down after the holidays seemed sensible, to give everything a chance to get back to normal routine.

Alan hadn’t been wrong when he’d said Stiles could get _oversensitive_. That was true magically, and mundanely. He was anxious, clinically. Medication and meditation helped, and he and Peter actually kept regular appointments with a pair of therapists who worked out of the same office.

He tried to be self aware; he took steps to keep himself as healthy as possible, as often as possible. But still, anxious.

Considering how many times they’d all nearly died in increasingly gruesome ways, all through high school, it was only surprising that he wasn’t _more_ fucked up.

He liked routine, patterns, knowing where he stood. Knowing what was coming. He liked things to stay consistent, or at least comprehensible, because consistency was safer than mayhem. Peter liked stability too. They’d both had their worlds shattered and pieced back together more than once; they both understood the importance of a solid foundation, and how fragile it could be.

So Stiles decided to wait. He put a pin in the question gnawing at the back of his brain like a starving zombie, for now. He wanted them to be able to come at things with clear heads, no unnecessary stress muddying things up, when it was finally time to sit down and talk it out.

Apparently, Peter didn’t get that memo.

“Have you ever thought about children?”

They were at the supermarket, mostly because the farmers market wouldn’t open again until after New Year’s, and they needed to pick up a few other things for the house anyway. Stiles fumbled with the toilet bowl cleaner he’d been about to toss into the cart, and Peter caught it mid-air, before it could hit the floor and probably splatter lemony goop everywhere.

“Have I ever—” Stiles stopped, stared intently at Peter’s nearly-flawless poker face for a second or two, then tried again. “What do you mean? Like, the broader existence of children as a concept, or specific children? Whose children?” Because honestly, Peter couldn’t actually be talking about—

“Our children.” Setting the store-brand cleaner back on the shelf, Peter grabbed one of the nearby name-brand bottles instead, which was fifty-five cents more for exactly the same shit. Stiles was too stunned to argue about it. “Maybe not ours in a biological sense; I’d be open to adoption. But I’ve also been thinking about surrogacy. It would be a serious commitment to ask from someone, obviously, but pregnancy tends not to be especially hard on wolves, physically. And I’m fond of the idea of a child with your eyes, or maybe your nose.”

Peter reached up, lightly brushing his knuckles down the bridge of said nose, then tapping the upturn with a fingertip.

“There are several women in the pack we could ask,” he continued, calmly, like this wasn’t one of the most bizarre conversations they’d ever had. Definitely the weirdest one they’d ever had in a grocery store. “Though I’d probably leave it up to you to broach the topic, if it comes to that.”

“Oh my god.” Stiles latched onto the cart, like a drowning man clinging to a rope. “Are you serious? You’re asking me this _now_?”

Peter’s head cocked, but his expression was still conspicuously shuttered, giving nothing away. “Is this a bad time?”

“Is this a bad—” Swiveling his neck, Stiles exaggerated a glance up and down the aisle, which was empty of shoppers aside from them, then dropped his voice to a furious hiss. “You’re springing this on me in the freakin’ _toilet paper aisle_ , Peter.”

The laconic shrug he received was not remotely appeasing. There were a number of reasons why, when he decided to shack up with a Hale, Stiles had picked _this_ chatty asshole. Considering how much Peter loved the sound of his own voice, getting him to shut up was usually much more challenging than getting him to speak. The sharp tongue and sharp wit were Stiles’ jam, one hundred percent, even if getting a straight answer wasn’t always guaranteed. This tight-lipped, taciturn bullshit really didn’t get his motor running.

Two could play at that game, though. Taking a page out of Cora and Derek’s book, he tried communicating the vast depths of his increasing displeasure with the power of glare and eyebrows alone. After a brief, silent stand-off under the fluorescent lights, Peter was the first one to cave.

“I’m working on being more _open_.” He gestured broadly, finally letting a note of sarcasm colour his tone. “With our communication. With my feelings. Laurel suggested it.”

The sound that squeaked out of Stiles’ throat was pure disbelief. “I highly doubt your therapist meant: _ask your boyfriend if he wants to have a baby with you, in the middle of the supermarket_.”

“She wasn’t that specific, no.” Another shopper turned the corner, rolling a wobbly-wheeled cart past them, and up towards the paper towel. Peter stepped closer, lowering his voice to maintain a modicum of privacy, and laid a hand on Stiles’ hip. “Just to be clear, is the location your only objection? Because I can ask again when we get out to the car.”

“Are you fucking with me?” This entire conversation felt like a dream, or a joke, and Stiles wasn’t laughing. “Are you kidding? You want to have a kid, with me?”

“I want to discuss the possibility.” Peter didn’t look away, and the blue of his eyes washed out to stormy grey in the harsh store lighting. For a brief moment, there was something oddly vulnerable about the picture he made. Standing there, dressed in a soft green sweater Stiles had bought him last Christmas, with a few days of scruff darkening his jaw, and faint crow’s feet crinkling. “It’s not a dealbreaker. I love you. I’d be happy if we could raise a child together, if you want that too. Or I’d be happy to spend the rest of my life with you, and only you. We’re a family, either way.”

“Oh my _god_.” This was outrageous. Totally absurd. There was laughter bubbling up in Stiles’ throat, but he choked it back, afraid he wouldn’t be able to stop once he started. He was blinking way too much, too. “You realise one day we’re gonna be telling our kid this story, right? How their dad blindsided their pops, like a total dick. Made him tear up next to the discount detergent pods.”

Peter’s eyes widened when the words registered, a flash of unfettered astonishment, before he rallied. His smile was too warm and melty around the edges to really be a proper smirk though. “Sounds like exactly the sort of embarrassing story we’ll want to pull out on special occasions. Like when they start dating.”

“Shit, it’s gonna be _amazing_.” Stiles was beaming when Peter’s thumb swept over his cheek, and if there was any dampness wiped away, neither of them mentioned it. “You know what would be a hell of an end to that story? _And that’s when we got kicked out of the store for lewd behaviour_.”

“Well, these are the kind of sacrifices that need to be made, sweetheart.” Both of Peter’s hands found Stiles’ hips, quickly detouring around to grab his ass instead. The cart rolled out of the way, groceries forgotten in favour of crowding as close as physically possible. “For a good dramatic climax.”

**END**


End file.
